


Like Fine Ambrosia

by Thrace Addicted (Amidala_Thrace)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amidala_Thrace/pseuds/Thrace%20Addicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He allows her to set the pace, because he can't imagine doing anything else and because this is hers, this little encounter, and he can only watch and be swept up in her, inhaling her scent like a drug, like fine ambrosia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fine Ambrosia

**Author's Note:**

> My first and so far only Adama/Roslin fic - it's not really my pairing, but I wanted to write a gift story for two A/R friends of mine a couple years ago, and this is the result. For Trialia, who prompted me with "Laura/Bill - someone gets stuck somewhere inconvenient in one of their quarters, with very little clothing, and has to be ... removed and explained." And for Katie (canceron_jedi on LJ) who is the most AWESOME best friend and beta reader a person could ask for! Unbeta'd, beyond a quick run through spellcheck/grammar check, and contains spoilers through S3. Originally posted December 25, 2008.

Even as he slides the hatch open, he knows something's different. Someone's there who shouldn't be.

Bill knows because everything is usually in order, and although it's an order that makes sense only to him — as Laura has pointed out, many times — there's still a place for everything and everything in its place. So when he enters his quarters and sees clothes strewn over the floor, an old shirt draping his chair, socks piled on the desk, he understands immediately that there's been an intruder.

Cylon? Journalist? Disgruntled officer?

He squints around, searching, wondering if they bothered to stick around after trashing the place.

The hatch to the head spins, and he's reaching for his service weapon before he knows it — basic training dies hard, apparently — but before he can lift it to shoot, to call out a warning to the marines stationed outside, a slim figure emerges, belting a dressing gown around her waist.

_His_ dressing gown.

Laura.

"Frak me," Bill mutters, relaxing his grip on the weapon. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a soldier?"

"Well, it could be worse," she points out, that half-smile he loves beginning to crease her face. "I could be naked."

He scoops a pair of pants off the floor, folding them and adding a shirt and two rolled-up socks to the pile. "Depends on your definition of _worse_," he amends with a small smile.

"If you'd come in here half a second earlier, I would have been." Laura shakes her head. "Is there some reason, by the way, that your bathrobe was stuffed in the back of your closet?"

"Is there some reason you're wearing it?" Bill shoots back good-naturedly.

Abruptly she looks abashed, and he's sorry he asked. She's drawn and pale, the dark circles under her eyes standing out against the ivory white of her skin, veins tracing crooked paths on the backs of her hands. She hasn't bothered with the wig, choosing instead to wrap a bath towel around her head like a turban. In the robe, which suddenly seems expansive, her bony form is only too evident.

"Never mind," he sighs. "It doesn't matter."

"I suppose it does, technically." Laura pauses to gather up a few of the socks from the desk. "Diloxin treatment. There was a slight … accident."

"Accident?" His eyebrows shoot up almost into his hairline, and he knows it and hates himself for it. "What are you talking about?"

She shakes her head. "Let's just say I shouldn't have eaten lunch and leave it at that, all right?"

They avoid each other's eyes, the spectre of her cancer hanging between them like a lead weight. He hates what it does to her, but more than that, for the first time, he hates his duty for being what it is: implacable and unrelenting, uncompromising, interfering in a personal life he swore to himself after Carolanne that he would not have. Right now he wants everything to simply _stop_, so that when Laura needs him, he will not have to leave her. And the even stranger thing is that he never believed he would feel this way. He never believed there would be anything more important than _Galactica_, or his crew, or that ever-present duty. But he proved to himself there was.

"I should have been there," he says with a guilty sigh.

"Stop it, Bill." The authoritative tone has returned to her voice, and she fixes him with a steely glare. "I hope you realize that you're being ridiculous. I would put my duty before you and you know it."

He isn't entirely sure of that, but neither does he want to take a chance and question her on it. She is all business now, the look on her face the same one with which she faces down the media on a daily basis. Bill concedes with a smile, and a small shake of his head.

"All right. Sorry."

"Don't you apologize either. That's almost as bad." Laura crosses to the buttery leather couch, piling the clothes up neatly before sinking down onto it.

"Then what can I do?" he wants to know, a smile beginning to crease his face. He reaches her in two strides, sitting softly near her, his mind suddenly intoxicated by her presence. The dressing gown is belted just below her breasts, allowing a hint of cleavage to peek through, and Bill tries not to stare.

"How about this?" She leans towards him and they are kissing almost before he knows it, before he can contemplate whether it's wise. Her tongue grazes his lips, prodding gently, seeking entrance.

Against his instincts Bill murmurs, "Laura …"

She shakes her head uncompromisingly. "I _need_ this, godsdamnit."

The curse catches him off-guard and he blinks, putting a hand around her shoulders to steady her. "You're wearing my dressing gown," Bill says again, smiling against her lips.

"And?" Laura winks coquettishly. "What are you going to do about it, _Admiral?_"

He eyes her appraisingly. "I'm going to take it off."

It's her turn to giggle as his hands go to her waist, pulling gently at the belt. She hasn't tied it very tightly and it comes loose, exposing her to him. He pulls her closer, or she moves nearer, neither of them can tell which, and a moment later, neither cares. Bill glides his fingers over her skin, over soft breasts, around nipples puckered with arousal, to her encouraging moans. Now, somehow, he is able to see only beauty, gentle curves and twisting lines rather than jutting bones and pale flesh. The cancer consumes her, but for him, it has never marred her appearance. Nor does he believe it ever could.

Laura isn't idle either, her own hands having managed to unbutton him down to his tanks by the time he notices. "Turnabout is fair play," she murmurs softly in answer to his gaze, and next second she's pushed him down, onto the couch, her strength surprising him.

"It certainly is," Bill replies, grabbing gently for her wrists and pulling her down as well, so that her warm weight rests comfortably atop him. They kiss, long and slow and somehow desperate, tongues mingling after a moment, caressing, until both need air. His hands find her breasts again and she moans, a soft, needy, powerful sound that electrifies him. He knows he's hard now, and he knows that she knows it.

With a little gasp she arches again, one hand nimbly pulling open the zipper and wrapping around him, a smile forming on her lips at his stuttering gasp. "You need this too," Laura infers, grinding herself against him.

"You know, somehow when I got this couch, I never thought —" The rest of the sentence is swallowed by a groan as she frees him and brushes her entrance teasingly against his length.

"— the president of the Twelve Colonies would one day frak you on it?" Her laughter reverberates in his ears and Bill thinks he would do anything, say anything, just to be able to hear her laugh like that again, forever. "Physically _and_ metaphorically, I might add."

"Touché." He reaches down, down, pausing only when he finds the small bundle of nerves in her folds and sees her eyes slide shut as she jerks against him, the friction making both of them sigh happily.

"All right, enough of this," Laura declares, and confusion is wiped from Bill's face instantly as she impales herself upon him, inch by torturous inch, driving up to the hilt. They gasp like teenagers, chuckling softly to one another.

He allows her to set the pace, because he can't imagine doing anything else and because this is hers, this little encounter, and he can only watch and be swept up in her, inhaling her scent like a drug, like fine ambrosia. She may need this, but she is also correct: so does he, perhaps more than either of them knows.

Laura leans down to kiss him just as he leans up, their lips colliding and provoking a laugh from each. But then they are lost again, she taking him in and he slipping out, his hands coming up to palm her breasts once more, the pace soft and slow and even. He can feel nothing but her heat, hot and wet and tight around him, and his grunts are swallowed by her tongue as she moans his name in exaggerated syllables.

Warmth is building in the pit of his stomach but he will not yield until she does, until her satisfaction is achieved, and no sooner does that thought enter his mind than a shudder ripples through her and she clenches around him, an unmistakable climax.

"Bill," Laura murmurs softly, her hand coming down to twine through his hair. "Your turn."

That she even says it amuses him. "I was waiting — for you —" he grits out between thrusts, finally giving permission to the warmth to spread, to overwhelm him, to take over. Laura kisses him again as he gasps out his release against her shoulder, both lying still for several moments afterwards, pillowed against the couch.

"I needed that," she says again, her voice soft against him.

"And did I deliver?" Bill cocks an eyebrow mischievously.

"You know you always do."

He cuddles close, trailing his fingers across her cheek, feeling her drift like she did on New Caprica. He doesn't want to think of it, that godsforsaken planet, but if he could preserve one memory, it would be that one.

Laura's scent washes through him.

Like fine ambrosia.


End file.
